Ma
Mother Nature, spiritually speaking.
Dance in the Rain
I used to run outside at the first clap of summer thunder to dance in the rain.
I used to run outside at the first clap of summer thunder to dance in the rain.
The steps are easy: tilt your head back, stretch your eagle arms out, and spin.
It tastes like salt and showers and growing things.
Like Yes! Yes! Yes!
And Grow. Grow. Grow.
I miss my friends who would dance in the rain without a question, but with a look of recognition, we would bolt.
First one there gets one drop more.
Dancing in the rain was just the right thing to do.
It was the necessary thing.
But now, I’m without a dance partner.
Now, with the closeness of expectations supposed, of duties to show being done, I’ve lost the dance.
But somehow the song of it still wants a voice.
Somehow that thing with feathers still flies a short hop inside and stirs what’s left of what dreaming and passion and the immediacy of dancing in the rain can do.
Now there are headphones to dampen normal noises.
The happy wag of a dog comes from the sky like shrapnel in my back.
A cat on a counter meowing to signal the sun squeezes my burning shoulders with expectations of duty.
That same wagging dog paces in the swampy night air.
He repositions himself on the floor every few minutes to find a cooler spot to lay.
If there were a clap of thunder now, would he know the signal?
Would he go dancing with me in the rain?
Would he lift his head up and taste the pregnant potential of growing things and know what clouds might do?
Of what reckless compassion might do?
Of what dancing in the rain with a friend would most definitely do?
It will be 45 degrees cooler than yesterday when I wake tomorrow, when I walk to the kitchen to toast a frozen waffle, fill the electric teapot, and take the first pill of the day.
~ Wynn ~
The Great Blue Heron Leapt!
Then dove! Eagle like stabbed and grabbed,
and set down to eat the catch the size of his head.
He knows;
I’m here.
It’s raining;
I’m in the car.
Not only has he noticed;
He walked over.
Always a straight line of sight for us;
I’m indicative of something to him.
A sign of what?
Friendship.
Writers build libraries from the inside out.
So when we sit, take out pen and paper, (laptops don’t do it anymore, everyone types everywhere now), our whole aura is encapsulated by shushes from Hush Be-Quiet Librarian Sentries.
A Great Blue Heron’s pick of habitats: Library on a Lake.
People keep away the birds that bother,
Books keep away the people that pester.
How’s the energy? Mine I mean. For him? Lord, I exhale when I see him again.
He keeps coming back. Not to the same spot in the lake. The same spots. Where I am.
This energy stuff, this life and light alive stuff, this consciousness stuff, it works every way. All is alive. All is conscious. What we choose to do with the energy given us is what we are.
I have to believe every tree is a tree on purpose.
I can’t define what, or how, or why I know it,
Maybe it’s the way that bird knows me,
How he lines up a straight shot in my passing lane.
I don’t know the ball we pass or what the court is,
But I know we’re on the same team,
And I know he clears a way for me to get to him,
And I know that what is shared is returned.
But what that way is…?
What this floor means…?
What game we play…?
I don’t know what I am;
I’m not sure any of us do.
I don’t think this Great Blue Heron does either.
But when he’s in my passing lane with a clear shot,
I know without a doubt both of us are more than at peace,
In not knowing;
Together.
~ Wynn ~
There’s nothing new in a morning,
Sunrise is a promise kept.
Not something ancient.
Never something new.
What comes before ancient.
What comes after new.
The Sun is never shock.
Daylight decided dawns.
~ Wynn ~
Each day is a relay, a baton for tomorrow,
For adding to the dream you dream you dream is you.
Life is not a race against time, but a matter of the intention of each moment.
One pixelated promise, not promised.
There’s no way to hold a moment.
What is time if not a measure of the rhythm of our heart?
The pulse we step to is the measure of our life.
Time, too, is relative Al, when juxtaposed to our hearts content.
Literally.
~ Wynn ~
Two deer in the street at half past 5 AM.
A holy light around its face,
The one locked to my eyes with his.
Tall, a prince, a gift of Grace,
A reminder of the awesome power of gentle kindness.
I took a few pictures.
Clear, good shots, but dishonest.
Some light won’t stick to film,
Won't break to pixelate.
~ Wynn ~
I’m not ready for everything to die this year.
The wind is consistently strong the past few days.
The people who come from all parts of the world
To see our leaves change color are leaving.
The ground is a sheet of wax paper
Under a blood-let easel.
The firs will hold on.
The dust on the radiator floor vent
Burns from the steamed air forced,
From the hidden hot water
Onto the dead fly that won’t rot.
The firs will hold on.
Through the season of dying,
They don’t.
The refrigerator drones over the fly’s last
Protest as it falls to the faded floor.
The fan above the microwave still hums,
A little more dust, a little more hum,
But it still hums.
The firs weep weary,
Waist deep in wasting.
If you sit still, close
Your eyes and listen,
You can hear electricity
Go into the lights.
If you lie back, close
Your eyes and surrender,
You can feel
The Earth spin.
Winter's freeze freezes.
Spring's flower flowers.
Summer's swelter swelters.
Fall,
Leaves
Fanfare.
Leaves
Fall,
Fanfare.
Fanfare,
Leaves
Fall.
The Season's end
Ends The Season's
Season's end.
Words fail
Watching
Words fail.
Words
Freeze,
Flower,
Swelter,
Fall.
Melancholy mothers nature.
New England fathers poets.
Days you shut the door
And the hard frost won’t leave,
Days you open the door
And the fever lingers,
That dead fly that won’t rot.
There’s only:
Wasting time.
Watching time.
Watching
Firs.
Wait out the:
Inconsiderate
Sun.
Who won’t confess his light,
No matter what I say.
~ Wynn ~
If the sky and the horizon bent properly,
I could see those paper barked birches.
Autumn -swung and knocked- swung and knocked
Oak and ash and spruce and pine and even
Evergreens
Grumbled.
Fat chirping squirrels bent trunks down.
Elasticity whip snapped shot them back up.
I crooked my neck waiting for the dome of Heaven to burst.
Home ten miles south of mine watching for Frost on the birch branches,
To shatter Coke bottle pieces on the bracken of autumn wet.
My whole young life long waiting for you to crash back down,
Back home;
You never did.
You must have found a better place for love.
You must have found a better place for love.
~ Wynn ~
Forever Moon Skies
What each night sky knows Each sunrise lacks.
I'd stare at the moon
All day.
All night.
Once with Love
Once with the memory
Of Love.
Without thought I'd feast
On moonlight and the memory
Of moonlight.
The Spirit of
The Moon and I
On the hillside in neglect
Of what others want
Of me.
What each night sky knows
Each sunrise lacks.
That Star.
That bully star!
Always
On the way,
(in the way)
Of
A perfect night sky.
Is there a galaxy anywhere
Untouched by starlight
Where poets sit on hillsides
In communion with forever moon skies
Unencumbered by the gravity
Of a ravenous star?
~ Wynn ~